


the rhyme of the flying bomb

by Hnybnny



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Fuck The Nazis, Only Mentions - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, We Do Not Tolerate Nazis Here. Minimal Nazis If Any In This Fic I Promise, You Know There's People With Nazi Fanservants? Thats Fucked Up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:55:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24983440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hnybnny/pseuds/Hnybnny
Summary: the blitz was a german bombing campaign against the united campaign during the second world war, named for the german word for lightning- 'blitzkrieg'. london was one of the hardest hit, and overall, more than 40,000 civilians died.the master of chaldea finds themselves in the thick of the battle of britain in seeking to resolve what seemed to be a new pseudo-singularity, but the casualty numbers are much higher than they should be- england is losing, and the darkness does not protect them from the assault like it should. together with a familiar face from holmes' past, they must try to put things right, before britannia falls to the bombs.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	the rhyme of the flying bomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And a ton danced over the Thames and filled  
> A thousand panes with stars,  
> And the splinters leapt on the Surrey shore  
> To the tune of a thousand scars.

The figure pulled their heavy coat tighter around themselves as they trudged through piles of charred rubble, picking their way carefully across the pieces of what might have once been considered homes less than a month prior. The messes spilled out into the ruined road made unusable by being pockmarked with numerous cracks and craters, but the upkeep of infrastructure truly failed to matter at the moment, considering that there was not a soul around to use them besides the solitary individual. 

The moonless night was black, pooling around them like spilled ink, enveloping them in its blackness. The street lights- those that were still standing, that is- were unlit, so the figure relied on a single rusted oil lamp, the handle held tightly in their grasp, and its flickering flame for guidance in their trek. They crossed over the crumbled remains of a flat to the road it bordered on the opposite side, and as they walked down the silent street they began to count quietly under their breath. “Two-ten, two-eleven, two-twelve, two-thirteen…” 

This continued until they came to a stop two plots from the end. Like the houses on either side of it, it was somewhat more intact, having avoided the brunt of the damage that had toppled the rest. The top floors were gone, having collapsed inwards, but the ground level’s bricked frame still stood steadfast, and the figure gazed up the chipped stairs to the flame-licked door.

Above the threshold was cemented a small address plaque, stained with soot but still reading proudly:

_ 221 Baker Street. _


End file.
